


Folly

by terri_testing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:37:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terri_testing/pseuds/terri_testing
Summary: Snape's life has been a series of spectacular errors of judgment, to put it kindly.This has to have been his worst.





	1. Claimed as a Good

_“To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all.” Jane Austen, Persuasion_

 

In a lifetime marked by some spectacularly bad decisions, this had quite probably been his worst, Snape reflected sourly. But he didn’t spin to Apparate back.

The self-righteous set of the old man’s shoulders had decided him.

Swearing at himself under his breath, Severus let himself into his home and settled his wet burden on the sofa. One pass of his wand, and the boy was dry. Another satisfied him that the boy didn’t need further medical attention, now that he was breathing again.

Now to think, very hard indeed, before the child regained consciousness.

He drew the armchair next to the sofa and waited.

*

The boy stirred and whimpered, “Gran…?” Then he blinked, and focused on Snape’s face..

“Who are you?” he demanded. He twisted his head and took in his dingy surroundings. “Wha.. where am I? S’not Saint Mungo’s.”

Severus’s mouth tightened grimly at this intimation that the child had woken before in hospital. The boy flinched at his change of expression, and Snape’s resolve hardened.

But the child met his eyes straightly enough, demanding, “Where am I? Where’s Gran? And who are you?”

“I am Severus Snape, and I have just purchased you for the sum of one hundred Galleons. You’re here because this is my home, and you belong to me now.”

The boy tried to sit up, and collapsed. “Belong to you? I don’t! I belong… I have a family! Gran—”

“I purchased you from your family. Including your Gran. You belong to me now.”

“Gran … Gran wouldn’t sell me!” the child objected. But there was no certainty in his voice.

“I concluded the transaction with Algernon, true. Not your Gran. But she, and the rest of your family, went along most readily with Algernon. They seemed to feel that you weren’t… meeting their expectations.” Snape gave that last his most silkenly malicious tone.

The child sank down, shivering. The protest in his eyes died, replaced by fear and growing conviction, and Severus pressed his advantage. “Algernon has long wanted to be rid of you, you know, if you didn’t shape up. And however kind the others have been in not saying so to your face, you know they felt the same. When the opportunity offered, he found it easy to persuade them. For there can be no denying, can there, that you’ve been a great disappointment to your whole family?”

Tears welled in the boy’s eyes; Snape continued without acknowledging them. “I, however, expect to find you very useful indeed. I am a potioneer, you see. Do you know what that means?”

The boy didn’t answer at first; Snape fixed him with a stern gaze and snapped, “Do you?”

The child faltered, “Makes potions?”

Snape nodded briskly. “Exactly so. And the greater part of my work, you see, must be done without a wand. Gathering ingredients, cutting them, cleaning cauldrons—if such tasks are done with magic, the magic can sometimes change a potion’s effects. Therefore many preparatory tasks must be done by hand, and a Squib may do most of them as effectively as a wizard.”

The boy flinched again at the word ‘Squib,’ surely never spoken openly in his presence—although he’d obviously heard it whispered. Again Snape ignored the child’s overt reaction, saying only, “It’s my intention to train you eventually as my assistant. You must be respectful and obedient, and willing to work hard. At non-magical tasks. Do you think you can do that?”

The boy nodded mutely, his tears now spilling.

If it were true that a Squib could prepare potions ingredients, Severus might indeed train the boy in that trade if he proved to want a career in the magical world rather than to make his way among the Muggles. But it would be years before they need test the supposition.

Snape continued, “One hundred Galleons is a great deal of money, you know. It’s a sum I can ill afford to squander. But I consider it an excellent investment. I expect you not to prove me wrong.” He looked the child over critically. “I don’t expect you to pretend to like me, or necessarily to like being trained as my assistant. I do expect you to pay attention to what I tell you and to work hard when I tell you to, and you’ve already told me that you can do that. So we shall sort well enough together.”

He stood up. “Now, I expect you’re a little upset and need some time to think about things. I’ll leave you alone for a bit.”

He shut the door to the kitchen behind him, trying to ignore the boy’s muffled sobs.

Neville, he’d plucked from the boy’s mind.

Neville.

He tasted the name. Well, it could have been worse. Severus Tobias, for example.

Did the creature even eat human food? He seemed to remember that babies required a special diet even after they were weaned, and he didn’t know at what point children became capable of normal ingestion. Surely well before age eleven?  Still, the boy had a mouthful of teeth, so presumably he could use them. Severus surveyed his pantry in dismay, and then remembered with relief a childhood meal he could encompass with his scant resources: beans on toast. And plums for after—wasn’t fruit supposed to be healthy for the young?

He prepared two plates and set the table, then went to call the child.

Neville was curled rigidly on the sofa. Severus tried to tell himself that it was a good sign that the boy had stopped actively crying, but he found himself unconvinced.

He announced, “I haven’t had my nuncheon yet, Neville. I don’t know if you had yours, but our normal practice will be that you take your meals with me. It’s important to begin as one means to go on, to establish correct habits from the start. So even if you’re not hungry just now, you are to come to the table, sit with me like a civilized human, and try to eat.”

The boy got up and trailed Severus dispiritedly to the kitchen. Severus found his passive obedience a little alarming, but at least it was convenient. Still, the boy would clearly take watching.

Snape hadn’t taken into account how short the child was; he had to lengthen the chair legs to put him at a reasonable level. Neville stiffened visibly when Snape pulled his wand, but the child said nothing. When Snape gestured him to take his seat, he clambered up and poked a fork at the mess on his plate, seeming not to know quite what to do with it.

Face suddenly burning, Severus realized that a rich Pureblood might never have eaten Muggle—well, Muggle lower-class fare. What exactly had he stolen the boy _from_? Pampering by house elves? The boy’s clothes, a sailor suit that might possibly have been fashionable among Muggles a century earlier, were well enough made to argue that the family was at least relatively well-off.

Only that argument had a flip side: the richer and older the Pureblood family, the more confident they would be of getting away with “accidents” befalling their Squibs. The vision of the stiff-backed old man rose again before Severus’s eyes, and he suppressed his renewed qualms.

He addressed himself to his meal, pretending not to notice Neville’s clumsy hesitation. The boy only ate a few bites, but then Severus had no notion how much nourishment a being that size needed. He suppressed a sigh. No doubt there were books covering that and other such issues that he had never before needed to apprise himself of.

Snape took a plum and pushed the dish at Neville, heartened when the boy took one and bit. “How old are you, Neville?” he asked. He’d need to know that, for when he read the books. Take a baseline reading, yes, that was it.

“Five. Almost,” the boy whispered, eyes downcast.

“Almost five? And when is your birthday?”

“July 30th.”

Less than a fortnight away.

Severus floundered for other topics of conversation. The child had looked with apathetic surprise at the glass of water at his place, so, “What do you usually drink with your meals, Neville?”

He answered, dully, “Milk.”

Oh, right. He might have remembered that.

Neville’s favorite fruit was bananas; his favorite lunch was toasted cheese. No, he didn’t read yet. No, he didn’t much like porridge. No, he didn’t like eggs much either. His favorite breakfast? Toast.

With jam, yes, Mr. Snape.

Severus’s eyebrows rose. The child was brighter than he appeared, if he remembered the name after a single hearing, and under such stress. Moreover, this gave Severus an opening for the next topic he needed to broach. He cleared his throat. “Your effort at courtesy is appreciated, Neville, but that will be an inappropriate thing to call me.”

The boy hung his head, and Severus plowed on, “You may have noticed that I reside in a Muggle house. Moreover, in a Muggle neighborhood. Muggles have some strange notions sometimes; you’ve been told that, haven’t you?”

He waited for the boy’s nod.

“Well, for one thing, they have lost the tradition of apprenticeship and live-in assistants that we wizards continue. Such a transaction as buying a Squib from his family to be my helper would seem odd to them. Their tradition, the Muggle tradition, is, people only live together if they are family. And of course, we cannot tell them that we are wizard folk and live by different rules. Right, Neville? You know about the Statute of Secrecy, don’t you?”

The boy nodded again after a moment.

“Right. So we can’t admit to my Muggle neighbors that I’m a wizard who has bought a Squib from his family to train up as my potions helper. Instead, we have to tell any neighbor who’s curious that I AM your family. That we ARE related. Do you understand all this so far, Neville?”

Another mute nod.

“So, the story I intend to put about to my Muggle neighbors is that you’re my bastard son, of whose existence I have only recently become aware. I took you away from your mother when I discovered you to be mine, because she’s ill and not able to raise a child properly. That will explain why you’re living with me now when you never did before, why you will continue to live with me, and also why you might not seem altogether happy about the change. It even explains why there are things you don’t know that most Muggles your age would—because your mother was too sick to teach you things. That way no one will ever guess that you don’t know some Muggle things because you were raised in the Wizarding World.

“When you construct a lie, see, Neville, you have to make sure it covers all the pieces you need it to explain. This one does.”

The boy stared at the mess of beans and bread on his plate and said nothing. Severus, with an effort, kept his voice even. “However, Neville, that means it’s clearly inappropriate for you to call me “Mr. Snape.” In this neighborhood, you’d usually call your father “Dad.” You can say “sir,” if you’re being very formal or are in big trouble, which I trust you never will be. Still, people will expect you to be shy of me at first, so that will do. Do you understand what I expect of you?”

The boy finally looked up at him, confusion clouding the blue eyes. “I’m supposed to call you Dad in front of the Muggles?”

Severus cleared his throat again. “You’re supposed to call me Dad, yes, and to act like I’m your Dad, in front of our neighbors. Yes. Precisely. That’s the idea. Only, my own experience of subterfuge is that one needs to practice the role.”

He met the child’s blank look and sighed. “I mean—it’s hard to sound natural, saying something, if it’s the very first time you’ve said it. Or to act a certain way, if it’s the first time you’ve acted like that. People can tell that it’s not how you usually act or talk. So, if we want our Muggle neighbors to think we’re dad and son, we need to practice acting like dad and son. Before we let the Muggle neighbors see you, and start wondering who you are. Now do you understand?”

The blue eyes were looking Snape over now: lank black hair, hooked nose, gaunt frame. After a moment the boy said uncertainly, “But you don’t look like my father. Like we’re related at all.”

Snape looked as little like the tow-headed, blue-eyed, sturdy-boned tribe united in empty reproaches of that Algernon as anyone technically “white” well could, yes.

The child had some capacity for reasoning, then. One corner of Snape’s mouth relaxed in near-approval at the realization.

And the boy saw it, and relaxed a bit in turn. Severus, seeing this, registered also what it might mean that the child was so attuned to adult disapprobation.

Perhaps that Algernon could benefit from a little accident himself. Perhaps one involving Amanita?

And perhaps the rest of this child’s proud Pureblood relatives as well. Who were they, anyway?

No doubt the obituary page in tomorrow’s Prophet, or the next day’s, would enlighten him.

But for now, the child was waiting for his answer. Severus pulled himself back to the moment.

“Potions are good for many things, Neville, and one of them is subterfuge. The very first potion you shall help me to brew is one to make you look like you’re my son. You’ll need to take it for nine days, and I’m warning you now, it won’t be pleasant. You won’t like how it tastes or feels. But it will change how you look, permanently; and afterwards, anyone who looks at you, and at me, will believe that you’re my boy.

“Which you are, of course, already. I bought you fair and square. But the Muggles only recognize blood-ties, so we’ll make it look like that there’s a blood tie between us. And then no one will ever question that you belong to me now.”

He bent over and held the child’s eyes, repeating, “I bought you fair and square, Neville. Knowing you to be a Squib. I paid one hundred Galleons for you. I don’t expect you ever to wave a wand for me, Neville; I just ask you to try to obey me, to try when I ask you to do something. Can you do that? Will you try?

“Do you promise always to try?”

The boy murmured something with esses in it. It could charitably be interpreted as “Yes, sir.”

Snape accorded him a nod. “Then you’re MY boy.  Do you understand that, Neville? You’re MY boy already. But we’ll need to make it look like you’re my son as well, for the Muggles.”

He paused. “I bet your family’s told you lots about dragons.” The child nodded more eagerly. “Did you ever hear about the dragon that flew over Ilfracombe beach in 1932, and a whole crowd of Muggles saw it? In broad daylight? And this witch, Tilly Toke, and her family, saved the Wizarding World by Obliviating all those Muggles. Tilly was awarded the Order of Merlin for that. They were heroes, keeping the Wizarding World safe and secret.”

He leaned forward confidentially. “See, you’re going to do that, Neville. Be a hero. Keep the Wizarding World safe, your family, all of us, by keeping the secret. Only, of course, you can’t do it with a wand, like Tilly did. Fooling the Muggles by Obliviating them. So you’re going to do it by acting. By pretending. You’re going to be a hero by getting really, really good at acting like you’re my son and I’m your dad.”

The boy stared at him, blue eyes now worried and excited.

Severus continued, “You understand how important this is, Neville? It’s to keep the whole Wizarding World safe. So it’s important that you get good at it. Don’t worry; we’ll practice until we can make it look good before I start introducing you around as my son. I don’t expect you to be good at it right at first. But you will get good at it, won’t you, now that you know how important it is? You’ll get good at acting that way, won’t you, Neville? To help keep the whole Wizarding World safe?”

The boy straightened, lifting his chin. “Yes… Dad.”

Severus laughed. “That was pretty lame, Neville! See why we need to practice?”

The boy smiled back a little. ‘Yes, sir.”

 

After clearing the table he took the boy on a short tour of the house. The boy brightened very slightly at the sight of the postage-stamp back garden, so Severus left him there under an Imperturbable and a monitoring charm while he left on a quick shopping spree in London: bookshop, grocer, clothing store….

*

You gained someone’s confidence, and confidences, by appearing to offer them. Any spy knew the basic technique, and it applied here as well. And better to make a virtue of the necessity—the boy must be able to tell Severus was inexperienced with children of his age. Severus sighed at the thought, and walked out into the afternoon sunlight. Neville was in the syringa, riding a springy branch like a hobbyhorse. Severus refrained from comment and called the child to him. He conjured a bench by the door, noting again how the boy stiffened at the sight of a raised wand.

Severus tucked his wand away and opened his parcel of books onto the bench.

“These are Muggle books—see how different they are from Wizard ones?” The boy looked at the bright covers in fascination, and touched one finger tentatively to the crisp paper. “That’s right, see, they’re made of paper, not of parchment, and this is cardboard coated with plastic for the cover, not leather. These three are Muggle books on how to be a good parent—a good dad. See, I don’t know either exactly how the Muggles will expect us to act, how they’ll expect me to treat you. So I’ll need to practice too. We’ll both have to practice together.”

The boy went rigid and looked at the books in seeming horror. Severus stared, trying to account for the reaction. Then realization hit. He pinched his nose to try to forestall his building headache, and picked his words carefully.. “Neville. Have you been told things about how Muggles treat children? Things that worry you? Because, you know, whatever you’ve heard probably came from people who weren’t in a position to know the truth.”

Neville whispered, trembling, “Uncle Algernon said—”

Severus snorted and interrupted scornfully, “Well, precisely. That straw hat that he was wearing today, trying to look like a Muggle holidaymaker? It was a Muggle LADY’S hat. Every Muggle who saw him thought he looked ridiculous! HE doesn’t know anything about Muggles, so whatever he said was probably wrong.”

He paused, and continued more softly, “So what was it that he told you, Neville?”

The boy looked up. “He said… he said that I was lucky I was born in a Wizard family. He said, if I kept acting like a stupid Muggle they’d send me to them and see how I liked it. And then, and then, he said Muggles beat their children. With a stick. A big one. Cause they can’t use a wand.”

Severus took a harsh breath. “Well. There’s actually a little truth to that. BAD Muggle dads do sometimes beat their children, and sometimes the really bad ones do use a stick. Only, see, I don’t want my neighbors to look at how I treat you and think that I’m a bad dad. That would attract undesirable attention. We want to make them think that I’m a good dad, and that you’re a good son. That’s what these books are for, to help us practice so we’ll look like good ones. And good dads, according to Muggles, never hit their little boys. Especially not with a stick.”

Stretching the truth a bit—spanking had been perfectly acceptable. And caning was offensive in this neighborhood only for its la-di-dah associations. But knocking a child about enough to hurt him, as Neville clearly feared, was generally thought to be going too far.

On impulse, Severus added, “And Muggle dads, of course, can’t hex their little boys. Like you said, they can’t use wands. So if I’m practicing acting like a Muggle dad, I can’t use my wand on you. Ever.”

Neville was looking unconvinced, but that was better than terrified.

“Here. Sit down next to me, and I’ll read out loud what this book says about discipline. That is, what a good dad _should_ do, according to Muggles, when his boy does something wrong. Because little boys _do_ do things wrong sometimes, don’t they, Neville? Sometimes they’re being naughty, or sometimes they forget things, or sometimes they don’t know any better, or sometimes they don’t understand what they’re supposed to do, or sometimes they just can’t do it.

"Like you can’t do magic just because your Uncle Algernon wanted you to.”

The boy was nodding solemnly throughout this litany, looking anxious. Snape cleared room on the bench and sat down.

“So, according to Muggles, what’s a good dad supposed to do when that happens? How is a good dad supposed to punish his boy when he has to? Let’s find out what this book says, and see if any sticks are involved. See, you can watch while I’m reading and make sure I’m not making anything up.” He patted the seat beside him; after a moment the boy climbed up, peering mistrustfully at the book in Snape’s hands. Severus showed it to him. “See, here are the chapter headings, and this is the one that talks about discipline. I’ll turn to it, and we’ll see what it says.”

At first Severus kept having to stop to try to explain the concepts in simpler words (a daunting task, and one at which he was largely unsuccessful), but finally Neville seemed to accept that no, no sticks at all were going to be invoked. He lost most of his interest with his fear. He stayed, however, leaning drowsily against Severus and listening silently, so Severus continued reading aloud. Eventually the warm weight started snoring softly, and Severus realized that the boy had fallen asleep.

Well, no doubt the child was exhausted. Severus shifted to settle Neville more comfortably under his arm, and read on in silence. Neville might have been reassured by the absence of sticks, but Severus would, if forced to be honest, confess himself daunted. Sticks would have been easier.

*

“These books are for me?” Neville said, confused. “But I’m just your helper. You don’t give things to your helpers. They don’t want you to, even.”

Ah. So the boy _had_ encountered house elves.

“Well, as my helper you’ll need to read and write. These will help me to teach you, so you’ll be more useful to me. Besides, remember, we’re practicing acting like dad and son. If you were my son for real, of course I’d give you things. And you wouldn’t be surprised when I did. So we have to practice that, so the Muggles can see that we’re acting right.”

The boy didn’t protest the Muggle clothing after that, either the gift or the style, though he had a bit of a struggle putting some of it on. Severus left him alone to try. When Neville presented himself for inspection, Severus told him gravely, “You look very Muggle indeed, Neville. You’re doing a good job so far of keeping the secret. Looking like that, not one of my neighbors would ever guess that you really belong to a wizard.”

It was true. Snotty nose, untied laces, unfastened jacket, and all, Neville would fit in far better on this street than Severus ever had.

In fact… Severus fingered his own long, lank hair. It had infuriated his father, though not for the reasons most of their neighbors assumed.

Most adult wizards, especially from the older families, wore their hair uncut.

Most fathers in this neighborhood still did not, however.

And Neville would be teased if his dad looked too weird.

*

The Prophet headlines blared, “Longbottom Heir Lost—Feared Drowned!”

Snape closed his eyes in abject horror. It was as bad as it could be.

The Longbottoms’ boy. The child of Auror heroes who’d been tortured to insanity by vindictive Death-Eaters. Given his past, everyone who knew of it would believe that he had turned sides again and kidnapped the boy to wreak revenge.

Not even Dumbledore could get him off from this, if he were caught.

The wisest course would be Obliviate the child, dress him again in that ridiculous sailor suit, check the currents, and leave him on a beach somewhere where it was remotely plausible he might have washed up.

That would be Snape’s wisest course. It would be worse than folly to try to keep the boy now that he’d proved to be the Longbottoms’ heir.

The image of a figure standing proudly in the sun flashed again through his mind. “His father would have wanted a son he could be proud of! Any normal wizard could float himself to shore,” that Algernon had declaimed.

He’d committed his crime in daylight, witnessed by all his—all Neville’s—family.

 

Well, what of it? After all, the family would undoubtedly credit that Neville _had_ floated himself to shore, that he must have saved himself by unconscious magic. They would treat him better, in that belief.

 

But for how long?

 

How long before they grew impatient for other magical manifestations, and let Algernon try again to force one?

A year? Three years? Three months?

 

Snape considered the traditional witch-tests.

Throw the suspected witch in water. If he floats, he is a witch. If he drowns, he’d been a Muggle.

Jab him with pins all over. If you can find a spot that doesn’t hurt him, then he’s a witch.

Throw him on the flames, and monitor whether they sear or tickle his flesh.

Press him under the stones. If his breathing stops—stops _again_ —

(A cold and dripping burden. The warm weight snoring against his side.)

Severus stood up abruptly and Incendio’ed the Prophet.

 

No.

He wouldn’t give him back.


	2. Hardly Anybody

_“Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly any body to love….” Jane Austen, Persuasion_

*

Severus kept the child beside him for most of the process of brewing the Paternitas potion, occasionally letting the boy touch an ingredient and even, once, to stir. He didn’t expect Neville to retain most of his murmured comments, but at least the boy was exposed to real brewing and could register (and, hopefully, absorb) the care and attention with which it should be done. Severus remembered his own awe, watching his mother conjure bluebell-flames to brew a draught that had cleared his two-week-long hacking illness like—well, like magic.

And this potion was rather Dark. Well, quite Dark. So any factor that increased the involvement, the commitment, of any of the usual three participants, should strengthen the end result.

Brewer. Beggar, donor, recipient.

Brewer… this time coincided with beggar and donor. Unusual. Usually it was the mother who was the beggar, and the recipient unborn or just-born.

Severus couldn’t think of any other documented use of this potion where it had been possible to invite the increased participation of the recipient. He was curious to analyze the effect.

The last ingredient, however, the donor’s bodily contribution, was best added fresh. The fresher the better. Severus sent the child out for that.

*

Neville grimaced at the taste, but he made no sound of protest.

The skin paling slightly. The nose faintly lengthening.

“Would you set the table while I make lunch? I thought we’d have toasted cheese.”

 

“According to the books, Muggle dads are supposed to hug their boys good-night. And read them a bedtime story.”

Neville was almost exactly as comfortable with the “hug” as Severus was. But he clearly liked being read to.

Severus read from Beedle the first night, for its familiarity; the next and following, he read Neville’s new Muggle books, which involved repeated interruptions to explain trains and trucks and traffic lights…. and that, unfortunately, in the Muggle world, an animated and self-aware artifact could only be make-believe. So no, Severus couldn’t take Neville to meet Thomas.

(Severus had thrown himself on the mercy of the bookshop clerk. “I’m to have my five-year-old nephew to visit for the week, and I can scarcely be expected to know the child’s literary tastes. What on earth do boys his age usually like?”)

*

The lips thinning slightly. The eyes darkening from blue to murky hazel.

 

“You’ll be more useful to me as my assistant once you learn to read and write. Besides, of course I’d teach my son, so the Muggles will expect you to know how. Besides, once you know how to read, you can read stories for yourself, any time you want to.”

The boy looked up in sudden calculation.

“I’ll take you to the bookshop when you learn the alphabet. And again the first time you read a story to me.”

*

Olive skin, and both face and frame a little thinner.

“To SAY the alphabet,” the boy haggled after lunch. “You said learn, you didn’t say write.”

Snape had a shrewd suspicion the boy might actually have known how to say the alphabet already. Well, but introducing the boy to the Muggle world needed to be done, after all.

Neville looked more like his own cousin now than himself. Still, better not to risk London. A city with no magical community, but large enough that a random pair would be anonymous, would be better.

Birmingham should suffice. The bookshop, a toy shop, and take-out curry. Oh, and an appliance or department store to observe Muggle devices, especially the telly in all its glory.

“The neighbors will expect you to have toys, Neville. Of course a good father would give his boy toys. And they may as well be ones you like, so you should choose them for yourself. Only three for now, and three books. And Muggles will expect you to know about telly, and curry, and all kinds of things I’ll be showing you. For this trip, we’ll say you’re my nephew, because you look a little like me but not a whole lot. You will call me ‘Uncle Sev.’”

The boy gazed wide-eyed throughout the trip, and clung tightly to Severus’s hand. The telly enthralled him so much Severus Disillusioned them both so the child could watch uninterrupted for twenty minutes.

Curry was not a success. Severus went back and fetched fish and chips instead, which went over better.

*

The hair was now visibly darkening at the roots.

Severus took the boy back to Birmingham the next morning, but Neville was rather apathetic this time. Only the Thomas program on the telly in the toy store really held his attention. He only poked at his early lunch—well, Severus could sympathize with that reaction. Still, the boy had to be able to claim that he knew about McDonald’s. Neville excused himself to the garden with his toy loader after their return, but instead of playing, Severus found him napping under the syringa. When he woke, however, he was eager for his new books and for biscuits, so Severus put his reaction down to having been overtired.

But the third trip, to show Neville what Muggle playgrounds and parks were like, was a complete failure. Neville was listless and clumsy, and Severus soon took him home again. He checked the child for fever, but it wasn’t that.

*

Neville disappeared after taking his potion the following day. Severus finally tracked the boy to under the syringa, where he was curled like a sowbug. He didn’t hear Snape approaching, because his attention was fully occupied.

All the texts had said discomfort. But what Neville was enduring was clearly pain.

The Paternitas potion made changes more subtle, but much more extensive, than Polyjuice did. Only much more slowly, and with the final dose the changes, internal and visible, became permanent.

And Snape had _taken_ Polyjuice. He knew that that changeover _hurt_.

Severus should have realized…. He knelt down next to the boy, closing his eyes for a moment. “Neville. Stoicism is a good trait—“

The boy startled at his touch and looked at him blankly, his face tear-stained. Severus tried again. “I mean, it’s good not to be a crybaby. However, remember, we’re practicing acting like a dad and his son. And a son would usually tell his dad if he was hurting a lot, because he’d know his dad would want to help him if he could. Right?” He slid his arm under the boy, raising him.

Neville stared at him mutely, too far gone even to nod. Severus said quietly, “I’m going to draw my wand now, and use a spell to make you fall asleep so you won’t feel the pain for now. While I check what pain-killers I can give you, that won’t interact badly with the other potion. Okay, Neville?”

He waited for understanding to light the brown eyes before slowly, smoothly bringing his wand out. The child sighed and closed his eyes.

*

The anodyne he’d selected was the maximum strength he dared used on a child. It also shared a significant formulary with Veritaserum.

Neville’s face relaxed as the potion hit his system. Severus monitored him for a few minutes to be sure, and then cast Rennervate, tucking his wand hastily away from the child’s sight as Nevillee child stirred.

Neville looked around groggily, smiling a little when he met Severus’s eyes. Well, he should be smiling, with that dosage in his bloodstream.

Severus put an arm under the boy, and raised him to rest against Snape’s chest. The potion didn’t affect cognition proper, so Neville should be able to understand what Severus needed to say. Whether he’d care, in his current condition…

Snape grimaced, and tried.

“I’m a little angry with you, Neville. Though I’m more angry with myself. Practicing to act like my son, you should have told me how much it hurt. But more, as my potions helper, one of your jobs is tell me things I need to know about how my potions work. I’m more angry at myself, because I realize there’s something I didn’t fully explain to you. Sometimes, when I’m brewing a potion, the recipe I’m using, the book I get the information from, isn’t completely accurate. So when there’s a difference from what I expect and what happens, I need to know. So you need to tell me, if you know something that I don’t. Like if you’re experiencing something I didn’t tell you to expect.”

He scanned the pale boy, now lolling, eyes closed, against him. “The book told me this potion would be uncomfortable for you to take, so that’s what I expected. You knew, and I didn’t, that the potion wasn’t just uncomfortable: it _hurt._ So you should have told me that, days ago. Tell me now: has the pain been the same every time, is it getting worse, is it getting better?”

“Worse,” the boy whispered, opening glassy-eyes. “Worse every time.”

“Well, there’s only three more days of it, Neville, that’s a good thing. Still, I’ve identified several anodynes—painkillers—that I might use while the Paternitas potion is active. To pick the right one, I need to know some other things: how long does it hurt? And does it hurt worst right away when you take the potion, or does it build for a while?”

“Doesn’ hur’ now,” the boy slurred.

“No, it doesn’t hurt now, and I’m very glad of that, but that’s because I’ve given you a very strong painkiller, Neville. To pick the best one to use, I need you to answer my questions.”

Eventually, the boy did.

 

There could be few circumstances in which this potion would be used on someone old enough to express an informed opinion of the effects. So far as Snape knew, this was a first. It was normally used on newborns, or (the variant form) by pregnant women.

Had it hurt so much all along, on victims too small to express their pain articulately? Or did it hurt Neville worse than a fetus or a newborn, because the potion had to reshape an older body, retrain it from longer-held habits of growth?

Severus held the unconscious child in his arms and determined to find out.

*

He offered the Paternitas potion, this time, with another phial. Neville cast a quick, guilty look at Snape before he quaffed both.

So he remembered some of the preceding day, at least. But Severus couldn’t be sure how much.

Snape waited to be sure the boy was not experiencing any obvious pain before telling him quietly, “We need to talk, Neville. You know about what.”

He gathered the child against him, stroking his hands over the soft hair, black now at the roots. Over the child’s body, growing lankier each day.

Snape had been confused at first by the child’s change in height, since neither he, Tobias, nor Eileen, had been particularly tall. Then the Knut had finally dropped, from his Muggle science lessons. Conservation of mass, in a permanent change. Severus and his line weren’t stocky, and the boy and his original family had been.

He said softly, “You kept information from me, Neville. Information you should have given me. Not just because of practicing like I’m your dad. As the helper to a potioneer, you should have told me that my potion was causing you such pain. Because if I’d expected it to hurt that much, I would have warned you. And given you something to dull the pain, as I have now. Is my second potion working, Neville? Do you hurt like yesterday?”

The boy shook his head against Snape’s chest, and Severus tightened his hold. “Good. Good. That’s what I intended.” He tried to keep his voice low and calm. “So as a potioneer, I need to know—are you hurting at all? I need to know how well my second potion works.”

After a moment, the boy shook his head, and nestled his cheek against Snape’s chest. Severus slid his hand up and cupped the boy’s head. “You’re not hurting at all now, Neville? Any at all? You’re sure? I need absolutely accurate information, you know, to make sure my potions are working exactly the way I intend them to.”

The boy sighed, and sagged against the man. “Doesn’ hurt at all now…”

Severus held him, and forbore to grill him further.

*

The Paternitas potion seemed, by Neville’s report, only to twist the body in physical pain for several hours. So the anodyne Snape gave the boy this day wore off in early afternoon, though Severus stood ready as the boy woke to administer another dose.

It wasn’t needed.

And the boy was delighted by the cake, and by his presents, even though many of them were merely more Muggle clothing. deliberately held back for this day. Still, Severus had managed a few of the books and toys that Neville had eyed wistfully on the first trip. And the final gift was Severus’s belated inspiration, a Thomas train set.

Severus.pointed out, “There should have been a birthday party, if I understand the protocol correctly, but you don’t as yet have any local acquaintance to invite. Still, if ever you’re called upon to tell our neighbors about your first birthday with me, it should seem to them that I did the best I could.”

Neville smiled up at him shyly. “Yeah, Dad.”

The tank engine clutched in Neville’s hand jabbed rather painfully in Severus’s back when the boy hugged him. Severus restrained himself from pointing that out.

*

Day nine.

The boy swayed when he drank the potion, but there were no more alterations. When he opened his eyes again, they were the same dark brown they’d been the day before, and they were clear of either pain or confusion.

Severus released his breath and put down the second phial.

“I’m going to need to use my wand now, Neville, to cast a charm on your hair, to make it grow out. And then I’ll need to use it again to cut off the brown portion, and then another to dye your eyelashes and eyebrows black. Three spells, okay? You can count them while I’m doing them. And watch their effects in the mirror.”

“One,” the boy counted, watching in fascination as his hair grew six inches. Six black inches, tipped with a fringe of stippled dun.

“Two,” the boy said, as the ends fell off and vanished.

“Three,” and the brows and lashes turned as black as the boy’s hair. Or as Severus’s.

Severus put his wand away, and they looked silently in the mirror at the final result. “Think we’ll pass as father and son now, visually?”

Neville’s hand—a longer-fingered hand than it had been—crept to his mouth. “Yeah.”

Neville was certainly not a carbon copy, but the resemblance was unmistakable. He’d even acquired, unfortunately for him, the beginnings of the Snape nose.

The boy frowned suddenly at his reflection, and then turned and looked up at Severus. “How come you colored my eyebrows and lashes ‘stead of just growing them, like my hair?” he demanded.

Snape’s own brows shot up. “A quite pertinent question. See, the hair on the head is designed to grow, and keep on growing, and keep on growing. So the spell I used on your head hair just encouraged your hair to do what it already was doing, just much faster. Only, your eyelashes aren’t designed to grow like that. Think what trouble we’d be in, if they did! Grow and grow and grow until you couldn’t even open your eyes!”

The boy giggled at the image, and a part of Snape’s mind whispered how easy it would be to adapt the toenail-growing hex…. He pulled his mind back to the boy waiting for his explanation. “And neither is the hair in your eyebrows, or on your body, which you don’t have much of yet, so I didn’t bother with it.” He held out his right arm and pushed up the sleeve, and the boy examined the wiry black hairs on the forearm with solemn interest. “If that hair just kept on growing, we’d look worse than yetis!”

The boy poked Snape’s arm and giggled again. “You’d be all black!”

“And tangled, undoubtedly,” Severus said drily. “I’d be tripping on my own hair! Can’t have that. So that hair is designed only to grow a little ways, and then eventually fall out, and grow again. As your new eyelashes and eyebrows and body hair grow in, Neville, they will be the new color. But I’d have had to cast one spell first to make you shed the old ones, and then another to make you grow completely new. Two spells, and those spells are a little unpleasant. So it was easier just to change the color.”

The boy nodded, apparently following the reasoning, and Severus felt a surge of pride.

“Now, today I’m just going to take you to the barber’s. Because I can cut hair with my wand, but it looks messy. And this will be our practice run, okay, Neville? Do you think you’re ready?”

The boy’s chin lifted--the same gesture as before, but looking different in this different body. “Yeah, Dad.”

“And remember I don’t want you running yet, or climbing, or anything like that. You need to adjust to the changes in your body, get used to your new reflexes--”

The boy interrupted him, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, Dad.”

It was a supremely annoying expression. No wonder Tobias had always wanted to slap it off his son’s face.

Severus twitched the boy’s t-shirt straight, utterly unnecessarily. “We’re off, then.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this several years ago, and my original conception of the story ended at chapter five. I was urged to continue, and got bogged down a few chapters later. I'll definitely post through the original ending; after that we'll see how new writing goes.


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